Ruth Logan - Healing The Cowboy's Heart

The cowboy kept a light hand on the mare. “That’s exactly why I have no choice.”

“Isaiah.” Braden changed his tone slightly. He moved forward, imploring. “I’m your godfather, and I’m asking you. Begging you. Don’t do this. Please. It’s foolishness. It changes nothing, so what’s the point? She’s beyond help. Beyond hope. It’s time to do the right thing.”

The square-shouldered Native American faced the smaller doctor. His expression mixed remorse and conviction. “Which is why she’s coming home with me. Live or die, she’ll be where she should have been all along.”

The old man grabbed his bag so hard that it banged Charlotte’s leg, almost toppling her into the horse. “Out of my way!” He stormed past her and crossed the field, his bag half-open.

“I’m out.” He barked the words at Bitsy, but made sure they all could hear as another horse trailer arrived. A local-news car followed. “And I hope your new horse vet does well by the lot of you because I won’t be part of any of this nonsense.”

Nonsense?

A flash of fear gripped Charlotte.

What if she lost them all? What kind of reputation as a horse-savvy vet would she have then? Was she laying her career on the line for a hopeless cause?

One of the men motioned for her.

She began to move that way.

The mare swayed, as if weak. Then she caught herself, drew up her neck and stood firm.

Charlotte did the same. She was in a way better spot than the horse, and if the horse could muster up courage, then so would the doctor.

* * *

Saving Ginger was nonsense?

Cool anger chilled Isaiah’s veins, while the July temperature mounted.

The horse tipped her head and looked at him. If he’d had a choice, he lost it at that moment.

Bitsy approached with another halter. He ran his hand up the horse’s nose and murmured soft words to her. Would the aged mare trust his words after being betrayed long ago? Did she really recognize him?

She leaned her poor, thin face into his hand and breathed softly, an equine sigh.

Maybe she knew him. Perhaps she’d forgiven him for standing by and saying nothing all those years ago. For letting her be taken because he was caught in a tough spot between the horse and his mother.

His mother.

She would recognize the horse. Maybe not initially, but once she filled out—if she lived—Stella Woods would recognize the horse she’d accused years ago. And that wouldn’t go well.

Bitsy sweet-talked Ginger while the new veterinarian gathered information from Ty Carrington, Young Eagle and a woman from the horse rescue just south of Council. She offered initial instructions to each one as they guided the horses into their respective trailers. Curious, the campers had moseyed their way again once the horses were being loaded. The young doctor noticed that and glanced over her shoulder.

She was blonde. Blue-eyed. A lovely face, with the kind of figure that made a smart man take note, and wasn’t that funny because he hadn’t had time to take notice of a woman for a while. Partly his fault. Partly God’s timing in parking two orphaned kids in his care.

So yes, she was beautiful with her long golden ponytail, a wisp of fringe around her cheeks and forehead, and the plain T-shirt over thin blue jeans. She’d chosen a good outfit for animal work and long summer days. But Idaho farms and ranches were tough by nature. To start off at odds with his godfather, a man who shared history with 90 percent of the area’s ranchers, wasn’t just risky. It probably sounded the death knell of her professional career, because the Hirsch family carried clout in Adams County and they weren’t afraid to use it.

A second news car pulled in behind the sheriff’s cruisers. Neglected farm animals were big news in Western Idaho and a case like this would make headlines. And if the rescues failed, his godfather would use those headlines to his own advantage.

Braden didn’t like to be second-guessed. To have this young woman challenge his decisions wasn’t something he would forgive easily, even though he sat in the front church pew every Sunday, with his wife and her sister right there beside him.

Ty and Young Eagle had situated their rigs to receive their cargo. Word had spread, more people arrived and Isaiah hung back purposely. As the other horses were being carefully loaded, the young veterinarian came his way. She stripped off her gloves and shoved them into a pocket before donning a new pair.

“Bitsy said your name is Charlotte?”

She nodded toward her van with a jut of her chin. “New big-animal vet in town and already making enemies with the establishment.”

“Not all of the establishment.” He noted the men loading trailers, Bitsy and the kids, none of whom had really stopped watching.

“And you are?”

“Isaiah Woods. Rancher. Horse breeder.”

She frowned quickly. “Can you segregate her at your place so she’s quarantined for the first few weeks, Mr. Woods? You don’t want to track something into your herd.”

“Isaiah. And yes. I’ve got a spot.”

She accepted the correction with a brief nod. “You know this horse?”

“Yes.”

She slanted a quick look of assessment his way. “And?”

He stayed silent.

She didn’t. “You’re Native American.”

“Nimiipuu. Or Nez Percé, as we’re known now.”

“The Last Indian War.”

Few people remembered the native history, how a band of Nez Percé was hunted over a thousand miles of rough terrain, caught after much fighting and then sequestered on a hot, dry plain in Oklahoma, far from their cooler mountainous homeland. She surprised him and he didn’t surprise easily. “Someone paid attention in eighth-grade history. Many don’t.”

“Well, right now I’m paying attention to her.” Charlotte moved along the mare’s flank. She closed her eyes and gently probed the animal’s body. “She’s due to foal soon.”

Now she got his attention. He stared at the horse, then followed the skinny line of her curvature until the familiar sway beneath her confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis. “That can’t be good for her.”

“Babies do tend to steal whatever they need from their mothers, leaving the mother drained. In her case, drained equates starving.”

The horse gulped as if swallowing was hard.

“Do you have a place ready for her?” she asked as she smoothed her hand along the mare’s flank.

“A hay barn with three stalls I use when I need to segregate.” He watched as she did a quick exam from the horse’s side.

“Baby’s heart rate is strong and steady. Mother’s is shakier considering her condition. Let’s get her moved, get her in a clean area and we’ll start a care regimen right away.” She stood up, jotted notes into her phone, then faced him. “I won’t pretend I’m holding out a lot of hope.”

“Because she’s so far gone.”

“That and an almost full-term pregnancy puts a significant strain on the mother. How old is she?”

“Twenty-six.” He didn’t have to stop and think because he hadn’t stopped thinking about Gingersnap—her formal name—since the day they hauled her away, twenty-one years ago. He’d been nine years old and had just witnessed what no child should ever have to see, the loss of his cousin and best friend.

And then he experienced the loss of another dear friend when they sent the horse to be euthanized. Nearly every moment since had been timed from that fateful day. Alfie gone, and Gingersnap hauled away to her death.

Only here she was, so someone else must have realized the horse wasn’t at fault.

He didn’t know how this happened, but seeing his old friend neglected and starved, he knew it was long past time to fix things. Starting today. “I’ll get the trailer now that the others have loaded.”